


Heaven Beside You

by kronette



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Episode: s05e18 Point of No Return, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-24
Updated: 2010-05-24
Packaged: 2017-11-20 18:59:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/588616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kronette/pseuds/kronette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He let out a breath as Cas appeared in his doorway – and watched, stunned, as Cas promptly fell heavily against the doorjamb and slid in a heap to the floor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heaven Beside You

**Author's Note:**

> This is a continuation from where the episode left off. AUish in that we _should_ have seen this.

“The hell--?”

Bobby was half-dozing in his study when an unnatural gust of wind started blowing papers off of his desk. He instinctually slapped one hand on the papers as his other cocked the gun at his thigh, instantly on alert for whatever supernatural thing was about to manifest.

He let out a breath as Cas appeared in his doorway – and watched, stunned, as Cas promptly fell heavily against the doorjamb and slid in a heap to the floor.

He tucked the gun next to his thigh and wheeled himself over to the just-stirring angel. “Cas?” he said with trepidation as he got a closer look at Cas. To say the angel looked like shit would be a compliment. Drying blood covered the left side of his face, and what Bobby could see of the rest was pale as death. Bloody splotches dotted the dress shirt in an almost-pattern, and he didn’t want to think of what idiotic bullshit the boys and Cas had gotten into.

As Cas drew a breath, it rattled in his chest and Bobby’s mind automatically supplied _blood in the lungs_. Cas’ head fell back and he appeared to recognize his surroundings. “I made it,” was rasped through a throat clearly in need of water. Or whiskey.

“You sound surprised,” Bobby remarked mildly as he offered a hand up. Cas’ grip was a bit shaky, but firm, and the angel was on his feet in a heartbeat.

He watched in awe as Cas wiped a hand over his bloody face and all trace of red disappeared. “I am,” Cas replied to his question as Bobby watched the hand smooth over the dress shirt and all the stains and wrinkles vanished. “I wasn’t sure what effect the banishment sigil would have on me.”

“How’s that? I thought the one doing the slapping on the sigil stayed put,” he asked, suspicious. He wheeled back toward the bookcase along the wall and pulled down a bottle of bourbon. He nearly dropped the bottle at Cas’ distracted reply:

“In order to trap the other angels, I carved the sigil on my chest.”

Other angels – _on his chest - what the hell_? “Are you out of your mind?” he snapped as he thumped the bottle onto the desk. “You mighta sigil’d yourself out of existence!”

He started to get real concerned when Cas’ voice got very quiet and he avoided eye contact. Any time Cas avoided eye contact, shit hit the fan. “Dean was determined to say yes to Michael; my death would have had little consequence.”

Suddenly madder than hell, Bobby shoved his arm across his desk, clearing a swath of it of papers and books. The dull thuds echoed in the stillness that followed. He found himself in a staring contest with Cas, that damn lock ‘n load effect, but he wasn’t going to back down. Not on something this important. “Every death is a consequence; _every damn one._ Don’t think Dean doesn’t know it, even if he was acting like a world-class jerk. That boy’s got heaps of trouble when he comes back this way.” He grumbled, almost to himself, “I had half a mind to fill his ass full of rock salt; now I’m debating upping it to a round in the chest.” He opened the bottom desk drawer and pulled out a drinking glass, quickly filling it and took a sip, letting the burn slide down slowly.

Cas’ slight head tilt gave him the creeps; it was like Cas was studying an insect, not looking at him. “I don’t understand. Why would Michael come here?”

Bobby scrubbed a hand over his face, feeling deeper lines on his skin than he'd had yesterday. Damn idjit boys, leaving _him_ to tell Dean’s sob story. “Dean didn’t say ‘yes’. From what Sam wasn't saying when he called, it had been close. Too close.”

He peered closely at Cas, and he was right; he wasn’t seeing things: Cas was swaying on his feet. “Dean refused.” Cas sounded quietly surprised.

“Grab a chair before you fall over,” Bobby ordered, wheeling halfway around the desk toward Cas. “I ain’t got the legs to pull you up from flat on your ass.” He reached the closest chair and shoved it at Cas, who glared at it before kicking it across the room. Bobby stayed smart and right where he was, not wanting to draw the angel’s wrath toward him.

“How can Dean change his mind on something so profound, so quickly?” Cas strode around the room, clearly agitated. “It’s infuriating!”

Bobby sighed and rubbed the flat of his palms against his weary eyes. The Winchesters weren’t understood by anybody, and he’d had the longest of anyone alive to try. "Ain’t nobody that understands that boy on Earth, Heaven or Hell. He carries self-sacrifice around like a damn Boy Scout badge. He's ten times more foolhardy than his daddy ever was."

That earned Bobby a full-on glare that had him shrinking back in his seat. Cas’ tone wasn’t all that cheery, either. More like sandpaper across a chalkboard. “Your tone suggests fondness, even though I know that Dean and Sam frustrate you as well.”

He relaxed somewhat when Cas turned that laser-intense stare away from him. “’Course I’m fond of them. I think of them as my own kin, mostly. The thing with family is, they’re supposed to drive you nuts. If someone can rile you up that badly because they’re being stupid, it just proves that you love ‘em.”

“You must love Dean and Sam a great deal, then,” Cas remarked sardonically, and Bobby would’a swore on a stack of Bibles that Cas was ribbing him.

Still, he wasn’t looking to incur any wrath turned his way, so he chuckled softly just in case Cas wasn’t kidding, and wheeled back behind the desk to his bourbon.

Cas just stood there, looking a bit lost, and Bobby knew how he felt. Or he thought he might, anyway. The Winchesters were hard on a fellow. He hauled out another glass, filled it and set it at the edge of the desk. "Looks like you could use it," he explained at Cas' odd frown.

"This will not be sufficient,” the angel remarked casually, before he swallowed it in one gulp.

Bobby’s eyebrows rose as he picked up the bottle, intending to refill the glass. “Sufficient for what? Getting blotto?”

He was a bit surprised when Cas grabbed the bottle, but stared in awe and a little nausea as the angel tilted his head back and proceeded to suck the bottle dry. He was gaping, he knew, but what else could he do? A freaking angel of the Lord just downed a fifth of bourbon in front of him. The kicker, though, was when Cas explained, calm as you please, “I require a much larger alcohol base to become inebriated. The entire liquor store was necessary on my first attempt.”

He couldn’t help it; he laughed. Deep and long and something he hadn’t felt in ages. Light. Angels could get drunk. He didn't know if he needed that tidbit of information, but information was what he dealt in now. Hell, maybe they could get Lucifer so drunk he’d forget all about the apocalypse. That thought sent him into another round of hooting and knee-slapping.

“The thought of me being drunk amuses you,” Cas noted wryly, though Bobby could see the corners of his mouth tilted up in a smile.

Bobby’s laughter was dying down to muted chuckles and he wiped his teary eyes. “Hell, the thought of any of you sons of bit– angels or demons, hitting the bottle so hard you wake up in next week, is enough to do me in.” He glanced at Cas, hoping the angel didn’t notice his slip-up. Didn’t look like it; Cas had his mouth turned down and his gaze was unfocused. Great. More introspective bullshit. Didn’t he get enough of that when Sam was around? Finishing off his drink, Bobby spun his chair around to get another bottle from the shelf. When he turned back, Cas was gone.

=-=-=-=-=

Dean pushed the heels of his palms into his eyes until he saw stars, but it didn’t erase the images that had been haunting him since their escape from Van Nuys. They’d stopped somewhere in Arizona, he thought, but right now couldn’t be sure of anything. Michael was probably wearing Adam, if Adam wasn’t dead. Oh, yeah, and Dean had killed Zach. He’d freaking _killed an angel_. How was that even possible? Cas would know, if Cas were there. But Cas wasn’t anywhere. Dean had checked his voicemail a dozen times, and left a half dozen more messages on Cas’ phone, but so far, nothing. How far had the banishment sigil sent him? Wasn’t it supposed to just zap the angels back to heaven?

He groaned as he forced himself up from the bed, shifting to hang his legs off the side. Where was Cas that he couldn’t press one button on the phone to let Dean know that he was all right? Worry gnawed at his insides and pushed him from the bed to splash some cold water on his face. When he glanced in the mirror, he saw past his own reflection to their arrival at the muffler factory and Cas’ insane plan.

He could still see the fury blazing in Cas’s eyes as he’d ripped off his tie and shirt and had begun carving into his own flesh. Dean had known it’d be useless to argue with Cas, but he’d tried anyway. “Cas, don’t. There are three of us; we can find a way to fight five angels.” Even as he’d said it, Dean knew how utterly stupid he’d sounded. They’d had shit luck in fending off the angels up to that point.

Cas had stayed eerily silent through it all, though with each efficient movement of his hand, seemed to be saying, “I’m doing this for you, you selfish, stupid son of a bitch, despite you being an _ass_ and giving up even though you won’t allow anyone else to give up because of your selfish human nature that we have to put up with because you’re worth all the blood and sacrifice and death if it leads to stopping Lucifer and the Apocalypse. I put my belief and faith in you and I have nothing left to lose, even if I don’t believe in you half as much as Sam does right now, it’s enough that although I am _royally pissed_ , I will continue to do what’s right because it’s what you would have done, you _idiotically stupid human_.”

He’d swallowed thickly as his eyes had followed Cas’ hand, had watched as the sigil had come to bloody life beneath the blade. As a chunk of flesh had fallen to the ground, his stomach had lurched and he’d whispered, “Cas, stop. Please. It’s not worth your life. Just…let me do this and it’ll all be over. You know they won’t touch me.”

It had made Dean sick, watching Cas carve himself up like that, but how could he argue with Cas? He’d tried before and look where it’d gotten them; outside a muffler factory in Van Nuys about to take on Zach’s pals. And it wasn’t as though they’d had another idea. They’d been out of ideas; that’s why he’d made the decision to say ‘yes’. Half the world was better than none, and maybe it wouldn’t have been that horrific. Yeah, and maybe he’d have sprouted wings and gotten a nice beachside house in heaven.

A soft sound had drawn his attention back to Cas’ chest. The blade had been retracted and had been held loose in Cas’ hand. Dean had been almost afraid to survey the damage – but his eyes had been drawn to Cas’ chest anyway, the slow trickle of blood oozing from cuts made too deep. His stomach had rolled again but he’d refused to turn away. If anything, he’d at least owed Cas that.

As Cas had started to pull his shirt back on, a hissed breath had escaped as he’d stretched the sliced skin on his chest.

Dean had to close his eyes for longer than a blink, not wanting to think beyond that exact second. With a quickly indrawn breath, he’d stepped over to Cas and had helped him guide his arms into the shirt. Cas’ arms had hung limp at his sides as Dean had carefully slid each button into their proper holes, ignoring the slight shaking of his hands as he’d brushed the split skin beneath his knuckles. He’d stopped when he ran out of buttons, and had stared at the pulsepoint thudding dully at the base of Cas’ throat just beneath his hands. He’d swallowed thickly and bent to pick up the abandoned trenchcoat, had shaken it out a bit before walking behind Cas and had help it onto those slightly hunched shoulders. He hadn’t known how much Cas felt of his vessel’s pain, but he’d seemed to be short of breath and Dean had worried that he’d lose focus.

He’d fussed with settling the coat lapels correctly, trying to delay Cas leaving. It had been suddenly too much. Everything had crowded in his head but had frozen before it could find a voice. He’d stared at Cas helplessly, not knowing what it had been that he’d needed to say. Hours could have passed and he wouldn’t have noticed. He had just remembered how to breathe when Cas had held up the tie in his peripheral vision.

Licking his lips nervously, Dean had grasped the tie and knotted it loosely around Cas’ neck. He’d let his hands squeeze Cas’ shoulders in a last effort to persuade him not to do it. Cas’ determined glare had only intensified, and Dean had found himself without anything to say. With a voice that felt and sounded too thick, he’d ordered, “Don’t let them get the jump on you.”

“Isn’t that the point of going in there?” Cas had snapped, removing himself from Dean’s personal space. “To give you time to say ‘yes’ and save Adam?”

Dean hadn’t had time to reel from those accusations before Cas had opened the door to the warehouse.

The memory faded, leaving Dean staring at himself in the mirror. “Come back, Cas,” he whispered to his reflection, his eyes expectant on the empty space behind him.

=-=-=-=-=-=

The slight taint of Bobby’s liquor was already faded by the time Castiel appeared in Van Nuys. It was pointless to be there; the angels were gone and had left nothing of value behind.

He felt compelled to stay, staring at the building that had held a window to heaven. Bitterness slid over his tongue as his thoughts turned traitorous. His existence had been simple, once: Love and Obey. Want and need didn’t exist for angels – except that they had, and did, and now dozens of his brothers and sisters were dead. He had obeyed then, but now he didn't.

Now, he wanted, even demanded, and received nothing. Standing in the dying light of the afternoon, he felt – useless. He couldn’t control or persuade Dean’s actions, not even by the strength of his fists. He wasn’t part of Dean’s family, and never was it more apparent than his failure at changing Dean’s mind about consenting to Michael. He felt the betrayal and anger, the frustration and resignation as one who was close to Dean, yet he couldn’t reach across the yawning chasm of one who was not blood.

Bobby’s words came unbidden: If someone can rile you up that badly because they’re being stupid, it just proves that you love them.

Something settled into place, something he hadn’t known was out of alignment, and he felt the stiffness of his shoulders lessen. He may have rebelled and was barred from heaven for it, but he still loved God and all His creations.

Then there was Dean, whose unshakable faith in family had nearly caused his destruction a dozen times over. John had forsaken him; Sam had left him, and still Dean clung to family. Dean, who was opinionated and right and impulsive. Dean, who felt with his whole being, be it love, hate, despair or pride.

Castiel knew, without a doubt, that Dean would sacrifice himself to save the world. Even if he hadn’t said ‘yes’ to Michael, Dean would find another way. Dean loved too much, sacrificed too much, yet it was never enough, Castiel knew. Castiel knew, because he knew Dean; he knew every knot of bone and speck of flesh. He knew Dean’s soul, and he knew that Dean would never find peace with himself for all the misguided wrongs he perceived he’d done. Dean loved everyone but himself.

Castiel felt exasperation surging through his vessel at Dean for not seeing his own worth, and not just in the fight against Lucifer. Dean was important to a lot of people, not the least of which was his own brother. His importance to Castiel had many levels, as the one who could stop the Apocalypse, as a fellow warrior, as the brother who loved his brother above all else. He’d witnessed Dean’s devotion and love for Sam in the face of everything to the contrary. And because Dean loved his brother above all else, the sacrificing to save Sam would continue until Lucifer was defeated.

He felt something warm slip along his hand and stared absently at the blood trickling from his clenched fist, not realizing his fingers had closed so tightly. An involuntary reaction to his thoughts about Dean; it seemed appropriate that it had drawn blood.

His other hand closed around the cell phone in his pocket without his knowledge, and he pulled it out to stare at its blinking message indicator. His thumb hovered over the ‘retrieve messages’ area, but he didn’t press down. He didn’t want to hear the artificially copied sound of Dean’s voice; he wanted to hear Dean’s explanation for his change of heart in person. He wanted to look into Dean’s eyes and truly know why Dean was still Dean, after all the words spoken and punches thrown. His arm lowered slightly as he realized he didn’t want to ask Dean where he and Sam were staying, either.

He stared at the three numbers programmed into the phone and pressed his thumb down on number three. He held the phone to his ear and waited for Bobby’s gruff voice to answer; “Yeah?”

“Where are they?”

Castiel appeared inside the brothers’ room at the Little Daisy Motel in Cottonwood, Arizona. “Sam. Dean,” he stated to alert them to his presence. His gaze drifted from Sam’s concerned expression to Dean’s determined one. Something had changed. Again. “Sam,” he announced, not breaking eye contact with Dean, “I need to speak to Dean alone.”  
  
“Is everything okay?” Sam asked, a note of worry in his voice.  
  
“Aside from the Apocalypse, everything is fine,” he replied gruffly, hoping his annoyance at the inane question came through his tone.  
  
Dean’s eyes left his to focus on his brother. “Sam, it’s cool.” Dean nodded his chin toward the dresser at the end of Sam’s bed. “Take the car for a drive or something. Give us about an hour or so.”  
  
He could sense the protest and hesitation in Sam, but Dean’s voice carried with it the authority to make Sam pick up the keys and shut the door on his way out.  
  
Dean rose from the bed he’d been sitting on and advanced on Castiel, his concern pressing against the angel. “Are you okay?” he asked, but his tone was different from Sam’s; it held disbelief and awe and exasperation. Before he could answer, Dean spun on his heel and began to pace, hand rifling through his hair. “Damn it, Cas. Putting that sigil on yourself was the stupidest, most idiotic –“  
  
“More idiotic than saying ‘yes’ to Michael?” he countered, eyes tracking Dean’s path on the worn carpet.  
  
“Yes! No!” Dean’s hands fell to his sides and he stopped pacing. Just…stopped moving, altogether, as he stared plaintively at Castiel. “You didn’t know what would happen. You coulda been shot to parts unknown, or just blown apart.” Dean’s voice rose in volume. “What good are you to me if you’re dead?”  
  
His eyes narrowed dangerously and he found himself directly in front of Dean, crowding him. “What good am I if you capitulate to them?” he hissed, sending Dean a step back. “I agonized over my decision to join you against my Father, against my brothers and sisters, against everything I know and love. Yet I watched you change your mind and it seemed no more difficult to you than deciding which television program to tune into.”  
  
“You think that was easy?” Dean hissed back, his eyes shining with wetness. “You don’t think I ripped myself apart, trying to think of another way to stop Lucifer? I watched an innocent person damn herself to hell because of that Whore of Babylon. I saw a man of faith look into his daughter’s eyes and realize that it wasn’t his daughter anymore and that he had to kill her.”  
  
Castiel watched Dean swallow hard, then he seemed to draw into himself. “It’s not just demons that are doing the devil’s dirty work; he’s making us kill each other. We’re not fighting him; we’re fighting ourselves. It wasn’t supposed to be like this!” Dean shouted, turning and placing a swift punch to the wall paneling. The wall shuddered in protest, but Dean didn’t even flinch.  
  
“You think there are rules for the Apocalypse?” Castiel mocked, unable to stomach Dean’s childish petulance any further. “Once certain things are set in motion, certain milestones met, then Lucifer has free reign to do what he wants. Of course he’s going to have humans killing each other; it’s the most expedient manner to rid the Earth of them and any resistance they might have attempted.”  
  
Dean gaped at him. “You sound – are you proud of what he’s doing?”  
  
The idea that Dean could even contemplate him siding with Lucifer had him shaking with anger. “I understand the tactical advantage he’s undertaken, but I am not proud of what he’s doing. Far from it: I abhor it.” He caught a flash of – something – in Dean’s eyes and growled low in his throat. “Before you utter a word about Lucifer being my brother, remember what yours has done, Dean. ‘Let he who is without…’”  
  
“Don’t you dare start quoting Biblical at me, Cas,” Dean threatened, and Castiel was mildly surprised that Dean knew what he was about to recite.  
  
Dean covered his face with his hands for a long moment, then rubbed them up and down, much like Castiel had seen Bobby do on several occasions. Then with a deep, resigned sigh, Dean all but fell onto the corner of the bed. “I don’t want to fight with you, Cas. I don’t – there aren’t many people left, you know? The world’s getting a hell of a lot smaller.”  
  
Castiel immediately threw his senses in all directions, trying to gauge if what Dean said was true. It wasn’t, and he frowned as he realized it must be a phrase of some sort that he didn’t understand. Not bothering to ask for an explanation, he crossed the room and sat next to Dean, his eyes on the tattered floor.  
  
“You have chosen to fight again,” he said, and it wasn’t a question. That something that had changed, the determination he sensed from Dean, spelled it out for him. “Why are you constantly changing your mind?”  
  
Dean rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “What do you think free will is, Cas? You can make a choice, but change your mind about it any time you want. It can be something that was said, or maybe you get some new information, or you just look at the situation a different way, but something just…feels wrong and you know you’ve made the wrong decision.”  
  
He thought about that for a moment, weighing his decision to disobey orders against this new information. He found nothing to negate his original choice, and the idea of willfully challenging a set decision seemed pointless. “I still don’t understand. Once a choice is made, what is the point of reevaluating your decision? For good or ill, you made a choice; you should stand by that decision.”  
  
Dean’s voice dropped to just above a whisper, and Castiel leaned a bit into him to hear. “When you were beating the crap out of me in that alley, you wanted to kill me.” It wasn’t a question, and Castiel found he had no answer, because Dean was correct. He had wanted to kill Dean, if only to burn through the betrayal and rage he felt. As he had stared down at Dean, broken by his hands, he had been pummeled by the waves of despair and hopelessness and fear that emanated from Dean. The fear, as much as the other emotions, had stayed his hand, and allowed him to release much of the anger he felt toward the human. Not all of it, but enough that he was able to transport them to Bobby’s.  
  
“Killing you would serve no purpose,” he said gruffly, feeling as though something was constricting his esophagus, which caused him to clear his throat. “You would only be brought back again or Zachariah would have located and tortured you.”  
  
“That didn’t stop you from wanting to.” Dean’s voice was carefully casual, though Castiel could hear the guilt interlaced with shame.  
  
“It also didn’t stop you from wanting to say ‘yes’,” he admitted, though it pained him to do so, recalling the helplessness he felt as he continued to punish Dean’s flesh, the only part of Dean he could reach. “When I spoke to Bobby, he said that Sam said it had been ‘close’.” He noted Dean’s flinch as he mentioned Bobby.  
  
Dean’s hands covered his face again and Castiel had to strain to understand him. “He didn’t curse my name?”  
  
He quickly shifted his memory to the exact conversation with Bobby. “He claimed you were ‘ten times more foolhardy’ than your father.” He frowned in confusion. “I don’t believe that was intended as a curse. It sounded more like admiration.”  
  
A sickly chuckle brought Dean’s hands back down to his thighs. “Yeah, that’d be Bobby.”  
  
When it appeared Dean would say no more, Castiel prompted, “Bobby said it had been close.”  
  
Dean’s tone was rueful and his voice a little shaken. “So close that I told Zach I would hold out for one condition from Michael. Michael had to off Zach or the deal was off.”  
  
Castiel’s tone was flat as he concluded, “So Michael killed Zachariah.” He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. Another of his brethren was dead, but after what Zachariah had done to Dean and himself, he couldn’t muster the expected sorrow he should be feeling. Perhaps he was becoming too accustomed to angels dying that the shock was muted to nothing more than resignation.  
  
Then Dean’s words filled his head. “I killed that arrogant son of a bitch.”  
  
He felt an odd twinge in his neck as he whipped his head around to glare at Dean. “You had a sword on you?” He studied Dean’s features, the slight frown of his forehead, the guilt-laden eyes, the slightly turned-down mouth. “You knew you weren’t going to say ‘yes’ before you went in,” he accused.  
  
Dean shook his head but his eyes never left Castiel’s. “No. I intended to say ‘yes’ as I walked through that warehouse. Just outside the door, though, I looked down and saw the sword lying there, covered in blood. Angel blood. I thought it was yours,” was admitted in a low, rough voice.  
  
“You didn’t want my death to have been in vain,” Castiel mused in an attempt to catalog all the emotions sweeping through the human in front of him.  
  
The guilt in Dean’s eyes shifted to anguish, but still he retained eye contact. “I didn’t want the guilt of an angel’s death on my conscience.”  
  
Castiel’s eyes narrowed in confusion. “You killed Zachariah without guilt, I presume.”  
  
Dean’s gaze narrowed and his mouth turned down further. “His death was nothing but satisfying, knowing that asshole couldn’t fuck with my head anymore.”  
  
The whirl of emotions was now inside Castiel, and he struggled to separate them into what he knew and understood. Dean had armed himself against Zachariah because he thought Castiel was dead, and he didn’t want the guilt of that on his conscience. While that may be true, it also wasn’t everything. “That is not the whole truth,” he exclaimed softly, causing Dean to focus on him once again. “Your single-minded determination to give in was irrefutable. Your claim of guilt upon my death wouldn’t have stopped you from saying ‘yes’.” His unspoken question hung in the air, waiting for Dean to pick it up and answer.  
  
Finally, after a shift on the bed and his hand rubbing the back of his neck, Dean sighed and relented, “Fine; yes, it wouldn’t have stopped me.” Dean appeared to be struggling with his breathing, and Castiel wondered if something else had happened to the human in his fight against Zachariah. “I couldn’t stand your disappointment, all right? It was worse than Sam’s faith in me. Hell, it was worse than – it was bad, okay?” Dean barked, annoyance and frustration seemingly pouring from him. Eye contact was broken as Dean laced his fingers together and stared down at them.  
  
He called Dean’s name, but it was as if Dean’s profile was carved out of stone. “Dean,” he intoned forcefully.  
  
Hesitantly, Dean shifted his gaze to him, but refused to turn his head. Annoyed at the tentativeness of the human before him, Castiel dug his fingers into Dean’s jaw and forced his head around so he could glare at him. “You will look at me.”  
  
He noted the white-knuckle grip Dean had on the edge of the bed just before slightly too-wide eyes met his. The nervousness he felt from Dean caused him to soften his grip. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he promised, keeping his voice light. “I only wish to understand. You didn’t want to disappoint me; is that because you consider me part of your family?”  
  
Dean’s mouth opened immediately, but no sound came out. Heat suffused beneath Castiel’s hand as Dean’s skin warmed beneath his touch. He could sense the growing panic in the human. He also sensed something else behind that panic and in the rush of blood through Dean’s veins. He tried a different tactic to allay Dean’s fears. “Bobby explained to me that if you get upset at someone who is behaving in a stupid manner, that it means you love them.”  
  
His gaze flicked to Dean’s mouth where he allowed his thumb to brush up and over the cut his fists had produced a day earlier. He felt and heard Dean’s indrawn breath, felt the warmth of air on his hand as Dean exhaled slowly. “How you do think of me, Dean?” he asked, his voice low.  
  
He heard Dean’s grip on the bed loosen and saw the tense shoulders relax. “I—“ a perplexed look crossed Dean’s features as one of Dean’s hands came up and fingertips rested on Castiel’s cheek. Dean’s full-body shudder transferred to Castiel, causing him to reflexively tighten his grip on Dean’s jaw. “I’m not sure,” the human confessed, confusion warring with need that had finally surfaced.  
  
Castiel’s heartrate was increasing with the heat of Dean’s touch. The slight twist in his stomach and ache in his ribcage weren’t new feelings, but they were stronger, almost alive in their song. He tilted his head slightly to increase the pressure of Dean’s hand against his cheek and the feelings intensified even more. His eyes closed for longer than a blink as he felt the need to reorient himself. The room appeared to be spinning, but he knew no such thing was occurring.  
  
Sudden pressure against his forehead ceased the spinning for a moment. He opened his eyes and found Dean’s gaze fixed upon his, their foreheads touching, Dean’s quick breaths warming the air between them.  
  
“Cas,” Dean whispered before drawing them closer, and he startled at the press of Dean’s mouth against his.  
  
The purely human touch caused the breath to leave his lungs and his hand against Dean’s jaw started shaking. He pressed his hand against Dean’s jaw more firmly to stop the unwanted movement, but the rub of stubble against the sensitive flesh of his palm sent a tremor down his spine. Dean’s lips shifted against his and his hand slipped around Dean’s neck, pulling the human closer. Dean’s tongue –that snake-like, sinful part of him – licked at his closed mouth, trying to push his lips apart. Eyes wide with curiosity and not without fear, he parted his lips, making an unangelic sound as Dean’s tongue unerringly met his. His free hand clutched at the bed coverings as his insides pulsed and thrashed, wanting to clamor out of his skin yet remain where they were.  
  
This hedonistic feeling, intense pleasure sparking throughout his vessel, he wanted more. He sank into it, the rasp of Dean’s stubble against his lips, the whorl of fingerprints against his skin, the flavors bursting on his tongue. So intent on his vessel’s visceral explorations that he missed the slip of his true self away from the vessel. Castiel’s sudden stomach-drop to nothingness had him gasping for air and shoving Dean away frantically.  
  
Dean’s sharp concern sliced ribbons through his tattered control. “Did I hurt you? Are you okay? Cas?”  
  
Castiel – now once again firmly inside the vessel – closed his eyes and concentrated on the Earth’s movement beneath him, the openness of space around him until he could breathe without panic. “I’m fine,” he intoned quietly.  
  
“No, you’re not,” Dean growled, frustration and anxiety flowing from him.  
  
He opened his eyes and found his back against the headboard, Dean at the foot of the bed studying him as though looking for a hidden wound. “I’m fine,” he repeated, his voice regaining strength. “I didn’t know.” His body shuddered as that nothingness threatened at the edge of his senses.  
  
“Didn’t know what? Cas, what happened?” Dean’s worry began to irritate him, and he felt in control once again.  
  
He pulled himself upright against the headboard and rested his head back against the wall. “I attempted something I shouldn’t.”  
  
“Our kissing did this to you?” Dean asked, horror and revulsion intermingling in his tone.  
  
“No,” he snapped, unable to watch the self-loathing creep into Dean’s being again. He crawled forward, grabbed Dean’s head in both hands and pressed their mouths together, his tongue pressing insistently until Dean relented and that rush of feelings overtook him again, though he held himself in check.  
  
“This,” he growled, squeezing Dean’s neck to get his full attention, “was not the cause. I attempted to feel as you would and I didn’t realize how—unpleasant the sensation would be.”  
  
Dean’s hands gripped his forearms as he pulled back. “What do you mean, ‘as I would’? You mean, as a human?”  
  
He mulled that over, attempting to put his feelings into words. “The correct equivalent would be ‘as my vessel would.”  
  
He felt himself being shaken as Dean’s eyes flashed annoyance. “What the hell, Cas? Why would you do that?”  
  
He licked his lips, enjoying the way Dean’s eyes followed the movement of his tongue. “As pleasant as kissing is, feeling with this body is -- different.”  
  
“Different,” Dean echoed, his voice flat. “What does that even mean?”  
  
He sat back, still cupping Dean’s face. He knew Dean believed actions over words, so he prepared himself for what he was about to ask. “You know I’m inside this vessel, but we share more than that. I feel as my vessel feels, but there is also more. I am more.” He could see the confusion on Dean’s face and sighed. “I’m not explaining myself well.”  
  
He leaned forward and slipped his tongue inside Dean’s mouth, lazily exploring and fending off Dean’s advances to speed up their pace. When he broke away and leaned back, Dean’s eyes were fluttered closed and his face was flushed. “You enjoyed that,” he stated, letting a bit of playful smugness into his tone. He did learn a few things from Dean, after all.  
  
“Yeah,” Dean croaked, eyeing him warily. “So, what?”  
  
“It was pleasant for me, but it was – muted,” he admitted, knowing and not surprised to see the hurt flash across Dean’s expression. “For me, the sensations were channeled through the vessel. I can feel so much more, I am so much more.”  
  
His tone must have been wistful, because Dean’s hold tightened on him and he whispered, “What is it you want, Cas? Is there a way for you to feel like you would?” Dean answered his own question. “There is, isn’t there?”  
  
He was wary of even suggesting it. Dean had resisted Michael; this would drag the whole mess back up. “It would require a great deal of trust from you.”  
  
The declaration wasn’t immediate, but Castiel could sense the immense change in Dean as the human realized the truth of his statement: “I trust you.”  
  
Castiel worried it wouldn’t be enough. Having Dean’s trust was a huge part of this, but what he was about to ask…  
  
Dean’s nervousness was bleeding through to Castiel. “Cas, you’re freaking. Just, go for it, man. I promise I won’t break.”  
  
“It is very intense,” Castiel tried to warn him, but Dean silenced him with a quick press of lips.  
  
“Won’t know unless you try.” The bravado was sincere, if backed by falsehoods. Castiel could sense just how afraid Dean was, and fear could put them both in grave jeopardy.  
  
He tightened his grip on Dean’s face and bore his gaze steadily into Dean’s. “Do you know yourself to be the vessel of the archangel Michael?” he asked solemnly.  
  
“What the hell?” Dean’s eyes widened and then searched his frantically, but he remained steadfast until Dean licked his lips and croaked out, “Yes.”  
  
He could feel the fast rhythm of Dean’s heart against the palms of his hands and wondered fleetingly if he was doing the human body damage. “If you aren’t absolutely sure, both of us could die.”  
  
The steady rhythm of Dean’s heart stuttered beneath his hands, but the confidence was true as Dean answered, “Yes, I’m Michael’s vessel.”  
  
That arrogant confidence bolstered his own, and he lost sight of Dean’s gaze, instead focused inward on drawing upon his energy. “Close your eyes,” he gasped as all that Castiel was drew together and hovered at the center of his vessel’s chest.  
  
As Castiel swirled and convalesced, he demanded, “You must give me your consent.” He could almost see Dean now, the fractures of the human’s soul flickering like the stars in the Earth’s night sky.  
  
“Consent to…? Like hell I will!” Dean yelled, fury red and angry against his soul.  
  
“You must consent to me, Dean,” he hissed as his head tilted back and fire rushed up his vessel’s spine.  
  
“Cas, please,” Dean begged, fear buffeting against the angel’s pulsing light. “Stop whatever it is you’re doing. It’s not worth it.”  
  
“Too late to stop. Please,” he pleaded as his voice pitched high, getting closer to his true voice.  
  
It was meek and shaking, but he heard it: “Yes.”  
  
Calmness settled over him as he pressed his vessel’s lips to Dean’s, pouring his essence into the other vessel until he felt Dean trembling with the weight of it. He opened his eyes slowly and found himself lost in the awe shining from Dean’s eyes.  
  
“It’s you,” Dean breathed reverently.  
  
“Yes,” he answered with his voice, and felt Dean’s amazement flood through him. He felt Dean’s touch everywhere and touched Dean in return; their mortal bodies and their eternal souls clashing and coming together until he felt himself losing control.  
  
“Dean, I must stop.”  
  
“No, not yet,” the human pleaded. “Don’t leave me alone again.”  
  
“I must,” he whispered, clamping down on Dean’s mouth to pull himself back. With each indrawn breath he was coming apart, then his vessel’s spine snapped back and he was filled with love and light, blinding in its fury, numbing in its power.  
  
“Cas. Cas, please wake up. Come on, Cas. Please.”  
  
The human voice in his vessel’s ears dragged him up from the cocoon of warmth he’d been in. He must have mumbled something as Dean’s voice grew in volume and caused him to wince.  
  
“Cas! You’re alive!”  
  
His vessel’s limbs were weak but his heart was beating strongly. Dean’s declaration seemed pointless. “Stop speaking,” he muttered angrily. Anything further he wanted to say was lost as he felt himself enveloped in a warm, crushing embrace.  
  
“Stupid angel,” was whispered into his hair, and he felt a smug smile curl his lips. Dean had been able to see and hear his true self. He was known and he was loved.  
  
His head fell back and he was able to look into Dean’s eyes once again. There was a humbleness that wasn’t present before, and a new light that shone dimly, but strongly. Wetness dampened the skin of Dean’s cheeks and he lifted a heavy hand to wipe at it ineffectively.  
  
“Will you ever be able to do that again?” Dean asked with a shaky voice.  
  
He felt drained but filled, yet he also knew the truth. “It’s doubtful.” His eyes fluttered closed as Dean bent down to kiss him. It was chaste, not like their previous kisses, yet it thrummed in his blood. He sensed the same subdued heat emanating from Dean’s body.  
  
A low hum in Dean’s throat sent a jolt down his spine and his body arched up without provocation. His lethargy fell away as he curled his arm around Dean’s shoulders and pulled him down to the bed. One of his shoes came off as he dug his heels into the bed cover, trying to maneuver Dean where he wanted him.  
  
But Dean had other ideas, as Castiel felt his body shifted and stroked until Dean lay on top of his chest, a hand clutching at his hip and the other buried in his hair. He tugged at the collar of Dean’s shirt until he backed up enough for Castiel to pull the shirt off of Dean’s arms. His arms were momentarily trapped as his trenchcoat and jacket were shoved off his shoulders onto the bed beneath him, and then he was gracelessly pushed on top of them.  
  
Their mouths met again, a push and pull that had him making odd sounds in his throat that seemed to encourage Dean more. His fingertips curled into the skin of Dean’s back as his leg rubbed along Dean's outer thigh. His breath caught as Dean worked his belt loose and then blunt, worn fingers dug into the skin of his waist.  
  
“Dean,” he growled and the word seemed to echo in his head, drawn out and coming back again as Dean’s hand slipped along his abdomen and his fingertips brushed the base of his cock. “Dean,” he repeated sharply as his hands dug into Dean’s shoulders.  
  
“Shh,” Dean murmured against the skin of his throat as his hand made soothing motions across his jumping stomach.  
  
The erratic thumping of his heart worried him, but not half as much as the turbulent emotions threatening to overwhelm him. To calm himself, he took Dean’s head in his hands and directed their mouths back together, a surprised sound from Dean causing him to smile. His hips, that he hadn’t even realized were moving, settled beneath Dean as the whirlwind of emotions settled within him.  
  
He felt each flick of a button through the holes in his shirt, angling himself up only at Dean’s urging to remove the shirt completely. He stilled Dean’s hands at his pant zipper, instead pulling it down himself and drawing a feral sound from the back of Dean’s throat. He felt the bluntness of Dean’s teeth against his jaw, working their way back to his ear where Dean began muttering obscene suggestions of what he wanted to do to him.  
  
As lost in sensations as Castiel was, he could only catch phrases that Dean muttered against his skin, but the imagery they painted was so intensely vivid: “Fucking spread you like…lick you all over…fucking make you scream.”  
  
He found himself wound tightly again at Dean’s words, his hips grinding up into Dean’s as he heard himself promise, “Not until I’ve done most of that to you, first.”  
  
A shocked, breathless laugh preceded Dean rolling them over until Castiel was on top, staring down at Dean. Dean’s laughter died down to be replaced by seriousness.  
  
Deftly, Castiel unbuttoned and unzipped Dean’s jeans, never breaking eye contact as they both wriggled and pushed until the denim cleared Dean’s thighs. Dean’s chest was rising and falling rapidly as Castiel leaned down to lick at the sweat-dampened skin, then blew across it, raising gooseflesh. The satisfied arch of Dean’s back and the stuttered, “G-God, Cas,” caused images to appear unbidden to his mind, images that he’d very much like to experience with Dean.  
  
He ran the blunt tips of his fingernails down the entirety of Dean’s chest, enjoying the sounds that it drew from Dean. He began to lick at the skin beneath his hands, tentatively applying teeth here and there to see Dean’s reaction. He heard, rather than saw, the reactions and noticed then that Dean had fistfuls of the bed covers wound tightly in his hands.  
  
He reached for Dean’s left hand and uncurled each finger, kissing it gently until he could twine their hands together and rested them near Dean’s head.  
  
His body was trembling and sweaty and he felt uncomfortable in his skin. He stared down at Dean helplessly as his hips moved again, causing his eyes to close and his mouth to fall open. He latched onto Dean’s mouth as he felt himself once again disoriented as they changed position.  
  
On his side, he felt the slide of cloth against his legs and air on the backs of his thighs and he understood Dean’s need to blaspheme as cool air swirled around his overheated flesh. The cool air was replaced by Dean’s calloused, warm-wet hand and he rolled his hips into it again and again, everything out of control and flashes of color and then blinding white and a choked off scream became the center of his world.  
  
Castiel was alternately rubbing and squeezing sweat-slicked flesh that rocked against him gently. He wasn’t even sure how he was still able to feel his limbs, the calmness and deep-seated satisfaction enticing his eyes to close, but he wanted to see Dean fall apart by his hands. That need drove all others aside.  
  
He stroked his hands along Dean’s flanks, realizing he’d been holding onto Dean’s ass as the human’s muscles flexed beneath them. He was trapped between Dean’s body and Dean’s hand that was hooked behind his knee, holding him in place as Dean used him. His stomach tightened and his heartrate increased at the thought of just…being while Dean rutted against him, bringing himself to climax.  
  
He blinked his eyes open and found his teeth against Dean’s shoulder, thankfully not biting into the flesh. His tongue darted out to taste the salt-and-skin mixture and the rocking stuttered and Dean’s cursed, “Fuck, Cas!” caused him to smile.  
  
He let his tongue drag along Dean’s collarbone, up his throat to flick at an earlobe. “First, I fuck you, remember?” he whispered in Dean’s ear.  
  
A high-pitched whine accompanied the splashes of warmth between them as Dean climaxed. He held onto the shaking human until Dean calmed and his limbs went heavy. He noted absently that Dean’s eyes changed color slightly – the green had darkened even as the darkness within them lightened. They pleaded with him, even as the lids drooped and Dean struggled against sleep: Will you stay?  
  
“What about Sam?” he questioned, watching Dean’s expressions carefully. He understood Dean’s need to keep this between them; Dean had little and if Castiel were honest with himself, he had little, also.  
  
Concern, fear, then determination flashed through Dean’s eyes before Dean answered, “He’ll get over it.” As if to confirm his statement, Dean’s hands began the quick work of removing the last of Castiel’s clothing and then his own, leaving no doubt that Castiel would be staying.  
  
Naked in Dean’s bed, the air thick with their previous actions, he couldn’t stop his hand from skirting down the mark he’d left on Dean’s skin before wrapping around Dean’s torso and pulling them closer together. “Will you ‘get over it’?” he asked, a question and a challenge.  
  
“I’ll be okay,” Dean promised, without the flippancy that he expected.  
  
“Sleep then, Dean,” he commanded softly as he raised two fingers to Dean’s forehead.  
  
His hand was caught in Dean’s, then brought down between them, his knuckles resting against Dean’s steady heartbeat. “I don’t need that. I don’t think my dreams will be bad tonight.”  
  
Again, the expected flippancy was absent, and he felt odd emotions stirring inside him. He shifted closer and pressed a kiss to Dean’s mouth, and repeated, “Sleep then, Dean.” He watched until Dean relaxed into sleep, soft snores confirming the human’s final descent.  
  
His hand at Dean’s lower back clenched into a fist as he heard someone at the door, then relaxed as he heard Sam’s quiet, “Dean?”  
  
He remained silent as Sam closed the door and prepared himself for bed. He realized then that Sam had been gone for far longer than the hour that Dean had requested of him. Three hours, seventeen minutes longer, to be exact.  
  
The darkness didn’t hinder his eyesight, so as Sam emerged from the bathroom, Castiel tensed as he caught the small smile that curled the other Winchester’s mouth as his eyes swept the disheveled bed.  
  
He didn’t relax until he heard Sam’s, “Goodnight, Cas,” whispered across the room.  
  
The End


End file.
